


Death Rattle.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - Palahniuk
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-23
Updated: 2004-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are certain things Angel needs to tell Tyler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Rattle.

**Author's Note:**

> For the contrelamontre 45 minute post-script challenge.

Have you ever heard a death rattle before? Do you know what sound it makes? It's not that smooth swish of a basketball thrown by an overpaid rapist, or the crunch of gravel beneath speeding cars. And it isn't the stroke of money crossing a well-greased palm, or the clink of change from a register drone to an undeserving bitch wearing Bambi on her hands.

And it's not the sound I make when you fuck me, that surprised sort of squeak that this is actually happening. I know better. I know the sound of the death rattle, Tyler. I've been hearing it since even before you showed up.

I've been hearing it since grade school when Sister Anne made the sign of the cross and then spat in the dust, took off her habit, and never looked back. I've been hearing it since junior high when the fags in the locker room would get their faces turned into raccoons for the unpardonable crime of being who they are. I heard it in high school in home room when Deni slapped me when I tried to kiss her and suicided the next day.

I've been hearing it for years, Tyler. It's nothing new. _You're_ nothing new. What you do to me isn't new. It's all been done a thousand times before. Hurt, then fuck. Hurt, then fuck. Somewhere along the line it all blended together. It's all about the mindfuck, isn't it, Tyler? It's never sex for itself. You use it to consolidate your power.

Have you ever heard that death rattle, Tyler? Do you know what it sounds like when you're a blink away from suicide? Do you know what it feels like to be the direct cause of death?

Oh, I know you've killed people. Everyone knows how you fucked your boss and then slid a knife through his heart. We all know how you take a boy to the side, a boy that will never be missed, and turn him into a pile of quivering screams so quickly, just with your fists and your feet. No one can deny you're a physical man, Durden.

But you've never been the reason someone lost all hope to live. You've never _been_ that death rattle, you've never _been_ that voice, that little voice, so tinny and cruel, that whispers _end it_. You've never drove a man so crazy he dove straight six feet under.

But I have, Tyler. It's something I've done that you haven't. I drove my father to drink. Do you know what a thousand drinks after a thousand days does to your body, Tyler? Think of soap. You have your glycerin, your tallow, and your lye. And then you have the person who stirs, who puts them all in, who slowly brings it all to a simmer.

Even a death rattle can't compare to that.

You said you wanted to destroy something beautiful. You said you wanted to see an angel break beneath you. You wanted to clip my wings and make me forget how to fly. You wanted to torture and tease until I yelled out your name, your proper name, the name no one but me knows.

Because I know about you, Tyler. I know about the one thing you don't want anybody to know. Because then they'll hate you, Tyler, more that a thousand stings of a thousand drunken sailors. They'll follow a visionary, but you're no saint.

I've seen your eyes change, Tyler, when you're fucking me and I'm sounding like my very own death rattle, long and keening. They go from murder to confusion, but you still keep fucking me, still stay on top.

You don't think I've noticed the change. But I have. I'm an angel, remember? I know what you are. Parasite. Murderer. You've taken over a host and you're making him do things he doesn't want to do. And maybe he was a willing victim at first, going eagerly to the sound of your death rattle, but his self-destruction turned into you.

But you don't understand, Tyler. I don't care about any of that. I only care about you. Because while the parasite can only have one host, my heart doesn't know that.

And I'm not going to tell about you, Tyler. I'm too entrenched in destruction, too dependant on sounding the keening wail of the mottled throne. I need it too much, Tyler. It's my addiction. I want to rip out the throats of all the department stores and history stores pandering to the masses. I want to destroy revisionist history and political correctness and the new math. I want to take psychoanalysis in my teeth and rip it through all the playgrounds in the world. I want to rain freedom down and let ring the bells of anarchy.

I want to be you, Tyler. I want you with me. I can't do this alone. Humanity cannot be saved by one man alone. You need me. You need me and you just haven't realized it yet.

And I'll be here, if you ever need a death rattle.

 

-Angel

 

P.S. Of course it isn't. You think you're the only one who can possess, Tyler? I am Jack's laughing mockery.


End file.
